


to release the pressure in the chamber

by waferkya



Category: Mayans M.C. (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Pre-Season/Series 01, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-09
Updated: 2019-10-09
Packaged: 2020-11-28 14:53:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20968397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waferkya/pseuds/waferkya
Summary: Coco knows he’s not allowed to want. Even if nobody’s ever had to tell him, he knows.





	to release the pressure in the chamber

Coco has always known he is not allowed to want.

He’s fourteen and he’s sitting outside in the heat because Celia is inside _working_, and he knows he’s gonna go mental if he ever hears one more of his mother’s wet, fake moans. He’s rolling up a cigarette in the middle of the hallway because he doesn’t want to risk feeling the faint vibrations of the bedhead thumping against the wall.

When Celia works, Coco is usually miles away from home, getting high or stirring up fights with older boys or both. But today’s a Wednesday, and Wednesdays are special: on Wednesday, Celia opens her door and her legs for a John who’s tall, dark and covered in tattoos. He has the squarest jaw in town and big, muscular shoulders; his legs go on for miles and he always wears dark blue jeans that wrap his ass like it’s candy. He’s gotta be a pervert of some sort, because good-looking papitos like him don’t need someone like Celia unless there’s something very wrong about what they like in bed, but even if he is, Coco doesn’t give a shit. He’d forgive him for anything.

Every Wednesday he comes home early and sits around until the John comes out, looking all angry at himself and ashamed. Coco sits on the floor and doesn’t bother hiding his looks. He stares at the man’s legs, at the curve of his bicep, sometimes at his crotch and always, always at his ass as the John walks away. He tucks those images in a badly lit corner of his head, dares to caress them when it’s late at night and nobody can ever know.

Coco tells himself stories about how this is about envy, because he’s a scrappy kid, all gangly limbs and malnutrition, and no matter how much powerlifting he does, he’s never gonna look like that. Coco is an exceptional liar, mostly because the truth of his cravings is unspeakable in Santo Padre.

He knows he’s not allowed to want. Even if nobody’s ever had to tell him, he knows.

It goes on like this for the rest of his life. Not with that particular man, of course. One Wednesday he doesn’t show up and they find his body two weeks later, rotting in his own backyard where he shot himself. The man is gone but Coco’s twisted cravings definitely stay.

He learns to dress it up, call his sexuality with all sorts of names: friendship and brotherhood and blood, admiration and loyalty. For the most part it works, except for all the ways in which it fucks up with his head and his sense of self.

His first team leader in the Corps is a guy twice his size, with a shit-eating grin and an intricate tattoo that starts on the back of his hand and snakes up the arm all the way to his collarbones. He likes Coco from the get go, declares himself his mentor, and every time they’re sitting together at chow Coco feels the heat radiating from his mountain of a body and he can’t breathe right. He signs up for special sniper training just to get away.

He knows he’s not allowed to want what he wants and honestly, if he could do without all this shit, he would — not the shame or the guilt, because he’s not gonna see those things for what they are, but rather his own sex drive in general, the thirsty part of him that wants to bite on muscles and be pinned down and fucked hard, split open and owned. It’s humiliating.

He fucks women from time to time, because he doesn’t want to be the weird one any more than he already is, and he makes it a point to make them happy first. They’re all very grateful, and maybe some are even heartbroken when he never, ever calls them again. He forgets them the moment he’s out of their rooms, even if they smell nice and treat him right; when Leticia’s mom shows up on his doorstep to get rid of their — his? — kid, he can’t remember the woman’s name. He leaves the baby with Celia and ships out for another tour, his finger on the trigger the only real relief he’s ever known.

He wants nothing more than to be a man who likes pussy, but when he walks into a pub it’s the stubbles that catch his attention, and rough voices, dark eyes, dark hair, cocky attitudes.

He thinks he’s fooled everyone around him, he’s convinced he’s the greatest liar in history. Even so carefully packed away, his taste for the big and burly must shine through somehow, because all of a sudden he finds himself kicked out of the Corps with some bullshit diagnosis of trauma and a lot of awkwardness from his former teammates.

With his severance check Coco buys a shitty house in Santo Padre, and he’s been holed up in there for three months like a psycho when Bishop comes knocking.

Bishop always knows everything, so he must’ve heard _something_, but still he offers Coco a patch and a brand new family. Then he stays for dinner, which consists of leftover pizza and a lot of tequila and even more weed, and it’s late into the night and they’re both so fucking stoned when finally Bishop leans in, one hand on Coco’s thigh, and with the most hilariously serious expression he says:

“Look, we are what we are. Everyone likes their own thing and I don’t give a shit, mijo. You’re a good one, I can tell, and you are a fucking killing machine with a gun. That’s all I care about.”

Coco has no idea why there are tears in his eyes. He shakes his head and laughs it off, but Bishop’s words lodge themselves somewhere deep in his chest. It’s the closest thing to _permission to be_ he’s ever had, all his life. He hangs onto it.

He’s going to join a deadly motorcycle gang, and he feels strangely safe.

That is, until he meets Angel Reyes.

Joder, Angel. He’s Bishop’s prospect too, but he’s three months away from the Vote and everyone in the club loves him to death. Why wouldn’t they? Fuck, Angel Reyes is perfect: gorgeous and kind and energetic, he can fix anything in a blink and he can get anyone to do whatever he wants. He’s never gonna win a Nobel Prize for Physics, can’t probably do complex math in his head, but he’s not stupid, and he wears his heart on his sleeve with insolence.

To Coco, Angel is sin incarnate. Coco could spend hours just saying his name, it sounds so sweet and strong on his tongue. He wants to put his mouth on every inch of Angel’s body and map out those gorgeous tattoos with his tongue and he wants to find out what Angel’s cock smells like. He’s never had it this bad before. He never knew his mind could be so fucking graphic, too.

It’s not like Coco’s arrival somehow fucks with Angel’s chances of getting into the club: there’s no limited spots, plus he’s already basically a full-patch, the Vote being little more than a formality by now. So they should be allies, with Angel showing him the ropes and tricks of how to be good at the job of being Bishop’s prospect, but for some reason they start off on the wrong foot.

Alright, it’s not “some reason”. Coco is actively trying to piss Angel off, because he figures it’s the best way to have his attention. He doesn’t ever turn around when Angel calls his name, he spills beer on his kutte, even _accidentally_ trips him up a couple of times when Bishop summons them, casually walks into the room when Angel’s trying to fuck one of the girls at the brothel. Bishop seems to find them amusing; the rest of the club are waging bets on how long till Coco’s body washes up dead in the desert.

The funny thing is, when Angel finally snaps, Coco wasn’t even trying to annoy him. Someone mentioned that Angel’s baby brother is good at sports, and Coco made an offhanded comment, something sarcastic and cruel, because he hates jocks in general, not because this is about Angel. And suddenly, fucking finally, he finds himself pinned up against the wall, Angel’s miraculously muscular, toned forearm blocking his windpipe, those big brown eyes wide as saucers, pupils shrunk to pinpricks.

It’s fucking exhilarating.

Angel is anger-crazy, his huge body inches away from Coco; and Coco can’t breathe, he’s gonna pass out or maybe even die in a second, and instead of fighting back, he lets a grin split his face in half. It’d be good, wonderful and perfect, dying under the weight of Angel’s strength.

Angel is so shocked to see him smile that he actually takes a step back. Bishop barks out a laugh from behind the bar, soon the others join in, the tension is broken, and there’s an interested glint in Angel’s eyes. Now, he can’t stop looking at Coco.

“You’re fucking insane,” Angel says, not one ounce of anger in his voice: instead, he looks amused, kinda charmed.

This is how Coco earns his Loco moniker, and he and Angel finally become friends.

If anything, Coco’s life gets worse. Angel is an affectionate friend; devoted, even. Whenever he’s drunk, the only thing he wants to talk about is how amazing and smart and wonderfully cold-blooded Coco is. He hasn’t even seen him behind a scope, and yet he can’t shut up about Coco as a stealthy deadly sniper forever watching his back (Coco doesn’t point out he’s not wrong; if anyone ever tries to hurt Angel, he’ll end them. No questions needed, ever). Somehow, Angel’s huge, warm hand always finds its way around the back of Coco’s head. He circles it, spreading his long fingers wide, and it’s not threatening, but Coco can’t stop his head from going to the place where Angel’s hand moves at the front of his neck, his thumb gently blocking his airways, trapping his breath, choking him lovingly as prize for his loyalty and punishment for his thoughts.

Usually, Coco finds a gentle way to shrug Angel’s hand off with a laugh: he’ll point to the pool table, he’ll stand to go take a piss, he’ll grab for a bottle of tequila behind the bar. Angel always gets this weirdly hurt look on his face though, with his forehead pinched in confusion, not quite sober enough to process or even identify the rejection correctly.

Tonight however Coco is feeling reckless and angry and tired. They just got back from a shooting with some fuckers who thought they could push their product in Mayan territory without asking permission, and Coco hadn’t fired his weapon since Iraq. The batterfield has always done strange things to his head. The truth is that he hates gunfighting, because he’s terrified of dying; and yet, whenever he finds himself in the middle of it he feels invincible, like there’s not a single thing in the world that could hurt him — and he knows that’s dangerous, he knows that’s the kind of thoughts that’ll put him in harm’s way, because he can’t see the reality of the threats he’s facing, you know?

Angel took him out of the club to smoke and insisted they didn’t get back in with the others. They’re chilling in the dark, far enough that they can barely hear Taza’s shitty playlist and the lights from the scrapyard don’t quite reach them; Coco is high and a little tipsy but he’s trying to explain himself to Angel anyway, all his paranoid thoughts about war and death and how he’d die with a bullet in his head right now rather than grow old and wrinkly and useless. He doesn’t know why, but it feels important that he splits his head open and lays it all out for Angel right now.

The gunfight today was scary. Coco is afraid he might not have a better chance.

And Angel, for all that he sometimes likes to make people think he’s a little slow, he stares at Coco and nods and seems to truly, genuinely understand. His fucking hand is back at the nape of Coco’s neck, too. Coco feels his skin burn and he’s not subtle: he jerks away and back, grabbing his beer with traitorous trembling fingers.

Angel looks genuinely dejected now, like someone just told him Santa doesn’t exist and his birthday’s been abolished and he’ll never be a Mayan all together. Guilt is a hot coal at the back of Coco’s throat, even if he doesn’t get why it’s there.

“What’cha lookin’ at me like that for?” he mumbles, knocking his knee against Angel’s because, after all, they’re brothers in this. And then his mouth decides to go off on its own, maybe it’s the adrenaline and beer: “You look like you’re sad I ain’t gonna fuck ya or something.”

Angel looks up sharp, just like Coco expected him to. Except there’s not outrage on his face, no laughter. He’s dead serious, squinting his eyes to better read Coco’s expression in the darkness. Coco’s throat is suddenly very, very dry.

“Wait. Fo’ real?” His tongue barely unstitches itself from the bottom of his mouth.

Angel walks up, crowding him against the corrugated iron that fences the scrapyard. His eyes look black in the low light, his body radiates heat in a stubborn, fucking fantastic way that makes Coco want to arch his back into it. Whatever, he does it; worst case scenario, Angel’ll shoot him in the head.

Angel just smiles. He drops his head low and his voice lower, and whispers: “I thought you’d never ask,” and then his mouth is on Coco’s, and something like wildfire takes over the world.

Coco grabs Angel’s face with both hands, no grace to it at all, because if this is all he gets, he’ll fucking get it all. Angel isn’t being gentle either, his kiss is all hunger and urgency to taste and feel and he pushes Coco against the wall, slips a knee between his legs, because he’s a sadistic bastard.

Coco comes up for air with a loud gasp, and he’s hard as fuck and still can’t quite believe his luck.

“What the fuck,” he says, his hands gripping Angel’s shoulders their lips still brushing against one another’s. Angel has the fucking nerve to laugh a little, straight in his face.

“Yeah,” he says, shaking his head a little. “Promise you’re real, carnal?”

Coco blinks, hard, for a long three seconds. “Me? I’m not—I’m not el principe de los Mayans, here, making out with… with the help.”

Angel’s face scrunches up in that adorable frown again. “You think you’re the help?”

“You know what I mean, Angel, c’mon.”

“Yeah, I think I do… and I don’t like it,” Angel says, still pretty serious. Then a grin splits his face, and his hands are snaking up under Coco’s shirt, running up his sides and making him shiver all over. “I’m gonna have to find a way to change your fucking mind.”

“Yeah. Yeah, you should… do that,” Coco mumbles, and he’s already distracted: he pulls Angel down again for another kiss — because he wants to, and now he can.

Coco is not going to think too hard about any of this. It’s probably gonna end bloody, because nothing good ever lasts long for him. Whatever. Until it does, all he wants is to drop to his knees for Angel, want him, and know that he is wanted just as much.

And when the blood comes, they’ll face it together.  


**Author's Note:**

> COCO /MADE HIM/ READ DON QUIXOTE i don't feel well
> 
> follow me in my fantasy world where Adelita is the surrogate mother for Angel and Coco's beautiful baby.


End file.
